


but I knew that I was home

by ThisJoyAndI



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Sansa gets to Highgarden, SansaWillasWeek 2014 - Day One, and is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 22:10:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1999803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisJoyAndI/pseuds/ThisJoyAndI
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(when I looked into your eyes)<br/>An unlikely rescuer saves Sansa in the days following Joffrey’s death and spirits her away to Highgarden. Happiness ensues. ‘The action makes her blush as if she were a child still, but Willas does not seem to mind, looking up at her with adoration, looking at her as if she is the maiden reborn and he could not breathe before he saw her.’<br/>First entry for SansaWillasWeek 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but I knew that I was home

There is a sharp rap against her door late one evening, and for a moment Sansa thinks that her death is upon her,  _finally_.

Tyrion has already been condemned to languish in the Black Cells, awaiting trial and most certainly his death. She remains locked in their rooms, still dressed in her wedding garb, unwashed and fed only on occasion. She has no doubt Cersei would like nothing more than to condemn her alongside Tyrion, but she supposes her status as the last Stark has prevented this. Twyin Lannister would not dare execute the heir to the North, even if the Boltons have claimed it – like the North shall be content with them as their liege lords. She would like nothing more than for the Boltons to perish, to die as painfully as her mother and Robb did, and hopes she shall be the one to condemn them to death.

The bells still chime for Joffrey's death, but the sound has long ceased to annoy her. It is now rather a comfort, the rhythmic ding-dong, ding-dong serving as her only means of entertainment, her rooms stripped of anything that might be a comfort for her. She has long discarded the amethyst hairpiece that adorned her hair, the stones twinkling at her in a way that causes a lump to rise in her throat.

So, she smashes it against the wall and leaves the stones to crumble, hiding in her bed but unable to sleep.

All her plotting has been for naught; her clothes remain buried in the godswood and she is locked up in Mageor's Holdfast awaiting her death, instead of sailing away to safety. There is nothing she can do, no way she can escape her rooms and flee the capital, nothing left to do but sit and mourn the loss of what could have been, like she has being doing for so many months now.

She thinks she would be halfway back to Winterfell by now, devising plans to retake the North and find her brothers – for surely Theon could not have murdered them, not after he had been present for their entire lives, not after he had pledged to teach them archery. But even if Rickon and Bran are alive, her father and mother are still dead, Robb is still murdered and mocked daily for his folly, and Arya is still lost to her.

Her dream of one day becoming Queen and bearing golden-haired princes seems so very childish now, when all she desires is her family to be whole once more. How has it all gone so terribly wrong? She can still remember her family whole and happy at Winterfell, before the king had arrived and everything had been ruined.

She inhales sharply, straightens the skirts of her dress, and perches herself on a chair as the door eases open, the crushed amethysts twinkling in the moonlight. She expects the person behind it to be Cersei, expects perhaps the Hand himself, even Ser Meryn or Ser Boros with their sinister grins. She expects any number of people to lead her to her death.

For certainly she shall die, even if she is innocent in Joffrey's death. She had thought often enough about him dying, but if thinking about it was enough to condemn a man to death Joffrey would have died the moment he took back his promise to spare her father and made her look at his rotting head, delighting in her grief.

She does not know who killed him but she is thankful to that person nonetheless, for Westeros would have truly fallen to ruin if Joffrey had remained king. Whilst she does not know who killed him, she is certain it was not Tyrion. Her husband despised his nephew, but he would never dare to kill him.

The door is completely open now, a person standing in the doorway with a lit torch in their hand. She does not expect the sight before her, and the ludicrousness of it all is enough to make her laugh and laugh and laugh until she is wheezing for air. Perhaps she is delirious, or perhaps she has finally gone mad like they say her mother did moments before her deaths. Her laughter is desperately shushed, but it takes a few moments for her to calm herself.

The man in front of her, taking her hand and leading her out of her rooms, is Varys, for sure, but it is a Varys she has never seen before.

She thinks about turning and running, tugging her hand out of his grasp, but where would she go? If Varys is leading her to her death, so be it. At least she enjoyed one last laugh before her death – that is more she can say for her mother and father, and Robb... gods, even Arya.

Her heart pangs, but she shakes the despair away. The woman in front of her, black hair curled around a round face, looks cautiously around the corner before tugging her forward, Sansa tripping slightly. It is pitch black, the entire keep seemingly asleep. She has no idea what time it is, nor how many days have past since Joffrey's death. Her heart pounds as she is dragged along, fearing that she is near the hour of her death.

When Varys finally releases her hand and she dares to raise her gaze from the floor, she stands not in front of the Queen's apartments or in front of a headsman, but instead before Lady Olenna, the door to her chambers closed and Varys gone without so much as a whisper. Her elaborate head-dress and garb traded for a dull cloak, white hair braided back tightly, Lady Olenna eyes Sansa, arching an eyebrow at her attire. A roughly-woven dress is thrust into her hands silently, and Lady Olenna motions for her to disrobe. It takes a few jerky movements, and a few desperate rips of a dress she has come to deplore, but eventually she returns to Lady Olenna dressed in the offered garb.

Silently, she tugs Sansa down into a chair, and her hands work deftly to remove her hair of the pins and wires that have kept her hairstyle intact. Her auburn hair falls down thankfully from its twists, and Lady Olenna secures it with a small leather band. Sansa turns around in the chair, mouth parted in preparation to speak, but a quick shake of the head from Lady Olenna silences her once more. She dons a cloak silently, trades her shoes for boots that are slightly too big but wearable nonetheless, and follows Lady Olenna out of the door.

The silence is broken only when they have boarded the ship, the Keep far behind them and the moon high in the sky. King's Landing is almost entirely silent, aside from the bells still ringing, Lady Olenna takes her hands as they stand on the deck, cloaks aflutter. “I told Margaery I would not leave without you,” she murmurs, smiling gently.

Lady Olenna gestures for her to take a seat upon a wooden crate, doing the same. Sansa folds her hands in her lap, turning her head to take one last look at the city behind her, inhaling deeply at the thought that she is finally leaving King's Landing, after so many whispered prayers, after so many hours of wishing and hoping, before Lady Olenna draws her attention once more.

“Dear Sansa, I was once in your position,” she confides. The ship rocks underneath them as it finally casts off, and they both sway slightly. “My father had promised me to some Targaryen or other, but I had decided not to stand for it. I took matters into my hands and secured my own marriage, however shocking my methods might have been at the time.” Lady Olenna laughs at the memory. “But that was then, and this is now. We were not at war then, and a Tyrell was just as good as Targaryen in my father's eyes, thankfully.” She smiles softly at Sansa, murmuring, “I know if you had had the chance to forge your own future you wouldn't not have married Lord Tyrion, and you certainly would not have chosen to remain under Joffrey's control.”

Olenna runs a soothing thumb over Sansa's palm, and she wonders not for the first time if this is what having a grandmother is like, and her heart pangs stupidly for a loss she has never known. Both of her grandmothers have been dead for years, well before her birth. It is just another reminder of everything she has lost – the family that shall never hold her tight or see her wed with babes.

But, gods be good, she is free now, free to avenge her parents and her brother, free to see those who dared to lay a hand on them suffer. The wind whips noisily through the sails above her, the salt air crisp but beautiful in her lungs. She thinks that is what freedom must taste like, and marvels at the sensation.

When she finally dares to look questioningly at Lady Olenna, the lady continues, voice sharp in the night. “Sansa, I would like to give you the same chance I had all those years ago. With your marriage to Lord Tyrion unconsummated and thus easily annulled, would you be content to accompany me to Highgarden? I remember you were pleased by the thought, before all this unpleasantness occurred.”

The offer causes Sansa smiles widely, and she can only offer a short nod in response, hope blossoming in her chest for the first time in months.

\---

Her hair has been dyed a dark brown, but Lady Olenna assures her it shall wash out quickly, perhaps even before they reach Highgarden. She eyes the brown strands, twirling them around her fingers and then releasing them to curl down her back, and thinks that she does not look like Sansa Stark at all.

But it is Sansa Stark who shall marry Willas Tyrell and become Lady of the Reach in time, and she desperately hopes her hair shall be back to its Tully auburn for their wedding – for what could be prettier, what could be more worthy of a song, than a maid in a cloak of green with auburn hair streaming down her back? Her maids had twisted her hair into one of the southern styles she had so loved but had come to despise on the morning of her wedding to Tyrion, and she had no maiden's cloak to speak of. It had been a marriage doomed from the start, and she winces when she remembers how she had knelt to him – kneeling to a _Lannister_  when his father had ordered the deaths of her mother and brother only a week later.

But she knows Tyrion is not to blame. They were both pawns, and Tyrion is suffering a far worse fate than she. 

This time, everything shall be different. It shall be a true marriage, in every sense. She spends all of her time sewing frantically, often pricking her thumb as the ship rocks suddenly. Lady Olenna has thankfully supplied her with enough grey fabric to make a maiden's cloak twice over. It will not be as beautiful as the one she often saw in Mother's solar, not as delicately sewn and worn by all the Stark maidens before her...but, it shall do.

They pass Dorne, and Sansa emerges from her cabin to eye the sandy land she has heard so much of  – the land where Aunt Lyanna died and where they grant females more freedom than anywhere in Westeros. Arya would have adored it here, and the thought of her sister pains her. The heat is almost unbearable, even with the cool breeze, and she retreats to her cabin as quickly as she is able, hoping it shall not be as hot in Highgarden. She is a true Stark despite her Tully colouring and even the capital had been too warm for her, a girl used to snow and ice. Nonetheless, her mother managed to adapt to the North despite spending her youth swimming in the Trident and dozing in the sun, so she is certain she shall manage to do the same, in time.

As they sail past Dorne Sansa thinks how nice it would have been to be truly free, to be her own person and not a lady bound by duty. But how could she have refused Lady Olenna when she had risked her own life to save her? She is not trading imprisonment in King's Landing for imprisonment in the Reach, for she shall be as free as she is now, and her happiness will be hers to ensure. She had once delighted at the thought of marrying Lord Willas, of being adored by him and cherished as the Lady of the Reach. That delight shall certainly return when she lays eyes upon him. Lady Olenna assures her that Willas is as agreeable to the match as she is, and she prays nightly (even though the gods have never been good at helping her) that she shall be happy in her marriage.

At night, the maiden's cloak bundled by her side and the ship rocking underneath her, she dreams of babes with auburn hair and large brown eyes, babes named Eddard, Bran and Rickon (and maybe Robb now too, she realises with a sob), and allows herself to ponder the happiness that is so very near after months of heartache.

\---

Her hair has nearly completely returned to its auburn shade when they arrive at Oldtown and she is truly grateful for the land beneath her. Lady Olenna ensures she has her cloak drawn tightly over her head, for even though Oldtown belongs to the Hightowers, family by marriage to the Tyrells, it is also a port city and a maid with bright auburn hair and wide blue eyes is sure to be of interest to someone. It is best for them all that she remain undetected and a silent shadow in the background, but she is unable to swallow her loud gasp when she is presented with a grey mare she is told comes directly from Willas' stables and as such is his first gift to her.

As beautiful as the mare is, docile and steady, Sansa is hardly used to being on horseback for long periods of time. She had always preferred to ride in a wheelhouse, or a litter, letting the riding of horses be done by her brothers. Highgarden is truly not that far from Oldtown, the Rose Road lovely and smooth, with rolling green hills and the sun high in the sky, but every trot of the mare beneath her pains her so very deeply. Upon the ship, her stomach irritated by the constant battering of the waves, she had wondered why they had not simply ridden from King's Landing, but now, with the horse underneath her and an ache shooting up her spine, she is thankful that they did not.

She knows that the ache she feels from riding is nothing - she has suffered far worse in King's Landing by the hand of those who thought to call themselves knights, often unable to sleep on her back for fear of breaking open her wounds once more. And she knows every minute she wastes walking beside her mare, forcing Lady Olenna, her two constant identical guards and their other companions to slow themselves in order to ensure she is protected, is a minute that might bring her enemies closer to her. She desperately hopes no one has been sent after her, hopes that with Joffrey's death and Tyrion's trial no one has thought to bother with finding her – but it is unwise to think so. By all accounts she is the last Stark, and she would be a pretty prize, worth a pile of Lannister gold if someone were to catch her. They kept her alive purely for her name, and they will search the entirety of Westeros for her. It is only when she reaches Highgarden and takes Willas as her husband, that she shall be truly protected.

So the next morning she shakes her head at the soft purple bruising on her inner thigh and re-saddles the mare she has named Lord, to match her departed Lady, gritting her teeth and forcing herself to ride, stopping only when Lady Olenna demands it. With their faster pace and Sansa's determination, they reach Highgarden in a matter of days.

Sansa has never been felt so relieved, all but falling off her horse, her auburn hair braided behind her. At the last inn she traded her simpler garb for a dress Lady Olenna had given her, made from the softest green fabric she has ever felt. As much as she had adored Lady Margaery's dresses and thought them delightful, she is grateful when she slips into the dress and finds it is made in a similar fashion to her own northern dresses. It is simple, but it is a sign of her new life, and she thinks it is rather becoming on her.

And her husband to be apparently thinks so too.

She spots him immediately – how could she not? After hearing so much about him, she could spot him in a crowd of hundreds. 

After receiving assistance down from her horse, she manages to smooth out her skirts before looking up at the party gathered before her – standing so tall and proud, an obvious reflection of family that reminds her of her own when they gathered to greet the king. There is Ser Garlan and Lady Leonette, both of whom she already knows, and a taller greying woman she assumes is Lady Tyrell herself. Standing next to her, curls smoothed back and a hand tightly gripping a cane, is Willas – she is sure of it.

She is so taken aback by him she can hardly breathe, heart pounding in her ears.

For Willas is truly handsome, and grinning so widely, so happily, so proudly, at her she feels as if she might weep.

“My lady,” he murmurs, stepping forward slightly to take her hand. He leans forward to place a kiss on it, his brown curls brushing her forearm. The action makes her blush as if she were a child still, but Willas does not seem to mind, looking up at her with adoration, looking at her as if she is the maiden reborn and he could not breathe before he saw her. “Welcome home.”

Their wedding is as beautiful as she had dreamed, her hair loose down her back and Willas standing tall, even though she knows his leg oft pains him – he barely knows her, has only just met her, but yet he will cause himself pain just to prove himself worthy of her hand. She nearly weeps when Willas places a green cloak around her shoulders, his lips gentle and sweet when they kiss.

Their first son is born a year later, a brown-haired babe Willas insists they must name Eddard. He is still squalling quietly as they place him in her arms, but he quietens when she hums softly to him. Willas leans forward in his chair to place a tender kiss on her mouth (he plainly refused to leave her during the birth, arguing that she has been his main source of comfort for the many nights he has awoken in pain, his leg needing to be set once again and his body thrashing in agony – so why would he not be beside her, his hand there for her to grip, there to take some of her pain away?) and looks upon them both, adoration sparkling in his eyes. With her son in her arms, so beautiful she can scarcely believe he is real, she can only think of how happy Highgarden has made her, her husband as gallant and kind a man she dreamt of marrying as a child.

Sansa can barely remember a time when she was not happy, when she was not greeted every morning with a kiss and fell asleep every night in the arms of her husband. She leans forward, shuffling in the bed slightly to place her son in Willas' arms, his little legs kicking furiously as his father softly shushes him.

She grins at the sight, and thinks no, she cannot remember anything but happiness. She is thankful everyday that Lady Olenna thought to rescue her, for Highgarden, Willas, and now this little babe, have brought her so much joy.

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, Olenna raved on about Highgarden so much and obviously wanted to take Sansa there, so why couldn't that have happened? I'd much prefer her in Highgarden than in the Eyrie, and Willas is without a doubt way better than Petyr. 
> 
> I'm always here for ladies helping ladies, and I think if she had been given the chance Olenna would have spirited Sansa away in a second - primarily for Sansa's happiness, but also for Willas' happiness as well, seeing as he's the grandson she raves so much about and in dire need of a highborn wife. Sansa and Willas could have been, and will be, happy together, and I hope this fic captures this. 
> 
> Written for SansaWillasWeek on tumblr, which you should all go check out and contribute to - it's not too late!


End file.
